The Story of an Hour
by frankenfeels
Summary: Describes the series of emotions Molly Hooper endures after hearing of the death of Moriarty, who was believed to have died in the resulting explosion and collapse at the pool. Set after "The Great Game".


**Title: The Story of an Hour  
>Author: porpoise_song<br>Pairing: I'd say Jim/Molly, but, honestly, it's mostly just Dr. Molly Hooper.  
>Rating: G<br>Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella shaped bruises on me (Mark Gatiss), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Author Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.  
>Summary: Describes the series of emotions Molly Hooper endures after hearing of the death of Moriarty, who was believed to have died in the resulting explosion and collapse at the pool. Set after "The Great Game".<br>A/N: Heavily based on Kate Chopin's "The Story of an Hour". I highly suggest reading it as it's a pretty good story.  
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><br>Knowing that Dr. Hooper is afflicted with a heart problem, great care is taken to break to her, as gently as possible, the news of Moriarty's death.

It's her friend, Irene, who tells her, in broken sentences and with veiled hints. Moriarty's second-in-command, Moran, is there, as well, near her. It was he who had been at the hideout when intelligence of the explosion was received, with Moriarty's name leading the list of "killed". He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second phone call, and had quickly made his way to Molly's flat before anybody less caring and tender told Molly the news.

She does not hear the story as many women would have heard it, with a paralyzed inability to accept its implication. She immediately cries in sudden, wild abandonment in her friend's arms. But the storm of grief quickly leaves her and she swiftly walks to her room alone. She tells no one follow her.

There standing and facing the open window, was a comfortable, roomy armchair. She sinks into the chair, now being pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunts her body and seems to reach into her very soul.

She can somewhat see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that thrives with new spring life. The delicious breath of rain is still in the air and in the street below a dealer is crying his goods. The notes of a distant song, which someone is singing, reaches her faintly, and countless sparrows are twittering in the eaves.

There's patches of the starry sky showing here and there through the clouds that have met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sits with her head upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob comes into her throat and shakes her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She's young, with a fair, calm face, which spoke of repression and, even, a certain kind of strength. But, now, there's dullness in her eyes, whose gaze is fixed away off on one of those patches of starry sky. It's not a glance of reflection, but rather an indication of suspension of intelligent thought.

There's something coming to her and she's waiting for it, fearfully. What is it? She does not know; it's too subtle and elusive to name. But she feels it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the colour that filled the air.

Her chest rises and falls tumultuously and she's now beginning to recognize this thing that is approaching her, and she's struggling terribly to beat it back with her will—although her two white slender hands are powerless against it. Finally, she gives up and a little whispered word escapes her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over again under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it promptly left her eyes, although they stay keen and bright. Her heart begins to beat faster, and the coursing blood warms and relaxes every inch of her body.

She does not stop to ask herself if it is or is not a monstrous joy that holds her now. A clear and exalted perception enables her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knows that she will weep again when she sees the pale, slender hands folded in death; the face that always looked at her with fascination, now fixed and gray and dead. But she sees beyond that bitter moment and a long procession of years to come that will belong to only her pass through her mind. And she opens and spreads her arms out to welcome them in.

There will be no one to live for during those coming years; she will live only for herself. There will be no powerful force bending her in that blind persistence with which he believed he had the right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looks upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And, yet, she had loved him—although only sometimes. Often times, she had not. She does love him...still does. But, what does it matter anyway? What could love the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion, which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she keeps whispering and beating down with her small fists on her lap.

Irene's kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, asking for entrance. "Molly, open the door! Open the damn door—and y'know you'll make yourself sick if you don't close the window. What're you doing, Molly? For Christ sake...just open the door."

"Leave me alone—and I'm not making myself sick." No, instead, she is drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her mind's running wild with all those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that will finally be her own. She breathes out a quick prayer; praying that her life will be long. It was only yesterday, she thinks, with a shudder, that her life will be long.

She finally stands up and opens the door to her friend's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in Molly's eyes when she glances down at Irene and, now; she carries herself, unknowingly, like a goddess of Victory. She clasps her arm around her friend's waist and together they walk down the stairs. Moran stands, waiting for them, at the bottom.

Someone's opening the front door with a key. The door opens and it's Moriarty who enters, a little grimy with debris, but composedly carrying a mobile and a Browning L-9A1. He had easily escaped the pool and the resulting explosion and crumbling of the pool. He stands amazed at Irene's piercing cry and at Moran's quick motion to screen him from the view of Molly.

When their doctor later comes, he says she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.  
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><strong>Another AN: Yeah, sorry for her ambiguous death, but— hey— don't blame me...blame Kate Chopin. The ending is left for analysis as her untimely death can range from her known heart problems to psychological factors.**


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